


I Like you a Latte (Words Simply Doughnut Espresso how Mocha)  - Tales from the Green Bean Coffee Co.

by persnickett



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Holidays, M/M, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: But January, he liked. In January, people did things like lying to themselves about pretending to finally give up sugary, caffeinated high calorie drinks and carb-infested baked goods from the pastries display. And they looked for ways for their Santa-depleted bank accounts to recover by taking things like designer coffees out of their budgets for daily indulgences, or they brewed their own while they were getting up early for that new-found commitment to the gym. Or whatever other manner of healthy thing people did, who weren’t already committing the daily insanity of dragging themselves from their night’s rest and the comfort of hearth and home before dawn’s light, all for the heady, glamourous joys of picking soured milk out of Carlotta the cappuccino machine’s frothing wand with a Dollar Tree toothbrush before their six a.m. opening time for a living.January was quiet.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 40
Collections: Maze Runner Secret Santa 2020





	I Like you a Latte (Words Simply Doughnut Espresso how Mocha)  - Tales from the Green Bean Coffee Co.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inbetween_days](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inbetween_days/gifts).



> This was written for The [Maze Runner Secret Santa](https://mazerunnersecretsanta.tumblr.com/) 2020, for tumblr's @cuffedjeans. Who wished for 'cliché tropes like Coffee AUs I guess, or just something with Brenda in it'. 
> 
> For Bella. Merry Christmas and a very Frappé New Year!  
> ~with warnings for excessive and painful puns. (and egregious over-use of parentheticals.)

“Yo,” Brenda’s voice was accompanied by two quick-time fist-thumps overhead. “Incoming!”

Then another thump, courtesy of the back of Newt’s skull meeting the underside of the counter he was currently ducked under the edge of, elbows deep in sleeves of paper cups and boxes of agave-based sweetener packets.

He stifled his curse and tried to make his reply, muffled as it was coming from inside the cabinet.

“Bit stuck, at the moment. Could you—” But he could hear Brenda had already clattered cheerfully halfway down the storeroom stairs, and conveniently out of earshot.

She seemed a bit chipper, given the time of year.

Newt liked January. He looked forward to it, even. Though the Holidays were lovely, of course, as any barista worth their salt would be honour-bound to tell you. Or at least they were at first.

The whole joyous, festive season, starting out with the bustle and fresh-fallen snow, and cheerful new menu of holiday options and flavours to taste. (And criticize, and argue over, and debate at great, heated and pointless length.)

But then, before a fortnight could even wear itself through, the faces in front of the counter would start to multiply, and turn grumpy and pressed. And the usual daily routine morphed slowly from polite strangers’ smiles and chatting with the regulars until it was all just a perpetual parade of the harried and rude, in search of a hurried hit of caffeine in place of a proper meal to get them through the great annual rush. And the smelly damp lanolin scent of wet scarf-wool and sodden mittens, and sweaty feet tromping about too long from shop to shop all day in moist snow-boots, began to permeate and mingle with the aromas of espresso lungo and toffee macchiato in the air, all blending together to make that perfect miasma of last-minute-anxiety, a.k.a. Holiday Cheer.

Not to mention the whole experience being set to the off-key, nerve-jangling tune of that damned, bloody jingle-bell Alby had insisted on installing above the constantly-swinging and half-open door – which somehow managed that mysterious balance of making it cold enough right by the cash for your fingers to freeze just enough to bugger up your smooth and efficient use of the till, even while the unending grind of the machines and hiss of the cappuccino foamers transformed the remainder of the entire café into an overworked steam bath that beaded in your hairline and made the back of your neck slippery and gritty under the strap of your apron.

_Festive_.

But January, he liked. In January, people did things like lying to themselves about pretending to finally give up sugary, caffeinated high calorie drinks and carb-infested baked goods from the pastries display. And they looked for ways for their Santa-depleted bank accounts to recover by taking things like designer coffees out of their budgets for daily indulgences, or they brewed their own while they were getting up early for that new-found commitment to the gym. Or whatever other manner of healthy thing people did, who weren’t _already_ committing the daily insanity of dragging themselves from their night’s rest and the comfort of hearth and home before dawn’s light, all for the heady, glamourous joys of picking soured milk out of Carlotta the cappuccino machine’s frothing wand with a Dollar Tree toothbrush before their six a.m. opening time for a living.

January was quiet. Which made for a welcome change, for Newt’s tastes anyway, but meant that inventory season tended to rather bore the knickers right off of the fast-paced and outgoing likes of Brenda.

Which, in turn, tended to leave most of the actual counting and recording to Newt, and admittedly made Alby’s hideous and accursed bell actually sort of useful, if Newt was honest. He would probably never look up from his scrubbing and spreadsheets to notice when they were getting the odd customer at all, if it weren’t for it clinking and clanging like the sound of the devil’s windchimes themselves; twitching its aggressively cheerily attached little sprig of holly or wintergreen or whatever it was like an evil little barbed tail.

Even if right this minute – yep, there it went, Christ, could it possibly be just a touch more shrill? Newt would have to put in a (sarcastic) request – it was a bit of an interruption. Then again, the fact that Newt had just now, only moments ago, had even the briefest of thoughts about Brenda’s knickers, meant he was well and truly due for a mental break anyway.

He set his current cup-count firmly in mind (37 short, 124 double-tall) before he ducked out from under the countertop, careful to avoid the edge this time as he did – and expertly managed to catch his elbow on the side of the open cabinet door instead. Another stifled-curse, a quick plastered-on standard barista-issue smile, and he popped up to greet the day’s first customer. If still rubbing ruefully at his arm. (Christ, _fuck_ , that was sharp. 82 sample sized and— )

“Hi—"

Newt officially lost count.

He was looking into a pair of soft-lashed doe eyes in a warm shade of honeyed amber, set above the bridge of a perfect, ever-so-slightly upturned nose, which graced a pale-skinned face speckled here and there with sweet little brown freckles as if it had been caught out in winter’s very first flurry and then frozen that way – right at the moment some fairy-tale witch’s spell had the entire world candied and it started snowing chocolate. 

And. The thing about nice, quiet January – or pretty much any time that wasn’t the aforementioned very lovely, very _festive_ year-end season – was that you could more or less tell the day of the week from the faces. Mondays belonged to the People Whose Haircuts Matched Their Dogs' set. Little old white-haired Mrs. Brennan and Gidget, her bichon frise, came first. For a cinnamon raisin scone and a hot steeped tea. Then the ginger-bearded hipster lad, Iain, who (wisely) left his big glossy Irish Setter, Lola, outside the tiny cramped entryway with her lead looped over the wrought iron railing while he popped in for his oolong kombucha.

On Tuesdays, a set of handsome, dark-skinned twins came in to order, without fail: one peppermint mocha – Gary’s – and one harvest apple cider – Stu’s – but never with any indication who was who. And Newt and Brenda took it in turns, passing their drinks over the counter and keeping a running score of who got it right the most times and who made them have to politely and wordlessly switch cups on their way out the demonically jingling door. (Brenda swore she had it figured out, but Newt was reasonably certain her ‘success rate’ was nothing more auspicious than the Law of Averages.)

By the time Thursday rolled around, Brenda was bored enough they had started playing that game where you looked out the shop window at the faces going by and made up a story about where they might be headed, from the Arctic expedition coat they were wearing in July or the mysterious briefcase and the bouquet of corner shop flowers they carried in their hand. (Because nobody carried a briefcase unless they were a 1970s spy. Facts.) They had gotten to know Thursday’s schedule well enough by now she could usually time it more or less spot on to the minute, to have her phone out and camera poised to catch the hulking and obvious bodybuilding aficionado whose layers of ridiculous brawn must have been keeping him so warm he never seemed to need a coat (or any other garment of clothing substantial enough it might get in the way of showing them off), ready to add Snapchat’s weekly offering of filters to her most recent snap of his fastidiously maintained and gleaming bald head. So far the tiny Willy Wonka top hat and frilly necktie was a favourite with Newt, although she had a possible contender with last week’s stripey Christmas Elf number and its big googly eyes.

It was like he’d said. January was quiet. In January you made your own fun.

But that was Thursday. Today was a Monday. Or at least Newt was sure it had been when he had gotten up this morning for his early morning Dollar Tree date with Carlotta – but these were very certainly the soft-lashed doe eyes and upturned, sweet speckled nose of a _Wednesday_.

Newt knew Wednesday. Wednesday (or _Hottie McDorkVibes_ as Brenda liked to refer to him – he had been in her Biochem class last year and was apparently into playing lacrosse, and comic books, and that was all the intel she had because he was always ‘too busy studying and bi-sexually doodling unrealistically proportioned superheroes in his margins to make any friends’) did not set foot in the shop. Wednesday jogged hurriedly by the park on the opposite side of the street and only stopped to buy a newspaper from the rough-looking man with the vines-and-roses facial tattoos who set up shop daily on the park bench, and yet he never left without staying long enough to make sure to pet the guy’s dog. Wednesday wore a soft-looking knit beanie sometimes, and sometimes bold black square-framed glasses, but always a big heavy-looking gym bag slung over his fit, athletic shoulder, and every now and then… if he looked up to catch Newt’s eye through the café windows and gave him a smile that may or may not have resulted in a new weekly habit of checking his hair just one extra time in the mirror before he left the house for a Wednesday morning shift, well… who was to say.

But now Wednesday was here. Inside the shop. On Monday.

Up close, that smile was – well, trying to find a word other than _dazzling_ was just an exercise in futility. (Good for him.) And he had snow in his soft swirls of mocha brown hair, and Newt had to nearly physically restrain himself from reaching over the counter to brush it away.

“Hey.” Wednesday was looking down at his nametag, which was fine by Newt because he was reasonably sure he still had smudges of dark roast fine grind on his forehead, and maybe his cheek, from when he was backflushing the machines that morning. “Your name’s Newt.”

“Either that, or it’s my spirit animal,” Newt responded extremely sanely, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to rub them surreptitiously away with the back of his wrist. “Welcome to the Green Bean where all of our snacks and beverages are fair trade and sustainably sourced _and_ the employees are named after the endangered species of their choice.”

“Oh,” Wednesday blushed. Fairly easily, apparently. “An _endangered_ Newt.” But recovered just as quickly, which Newt had to respect.

“Very rare,” he agreed, ending the bit by letting his grin go wide and appropriately friendly. “And at your service. What can I get you?”

“Oh. About that. Um.” The over-door bell jangled and Wednesday-guy’s nice shoulders gave an adorable little jump. Cue Mrs. Brennan. Gidget-first. “I’m not sure, I’ve never been here before. I don’t usually drink fancy coffees,” he put up one hand to scratch shyly at the back of his flushing neck like an awkward schoolboy. “I kind of came in because of my New Year’s resolution…”

His amber eyes flicked nervously about in a way that made Newt want to check self-consciously over his shoulder to see if perhaps Brenda had returned from her cheerful adventure to the storeroom. But then that would mean taking his eyes off that blush.

Which was now starting to creep down the sides of the poor guy’s neck and into his collar. Newt decided to be merciful.

“Trying to kick the habit eh?” He used his best understanding barista-as-old-timey-barkeep tone, a time-tested and proven strategy with all the boutique coffee virgins, and even picked up his bar towel to toss over his shoulder for good measure. “Well, we have lots of drinks that are caffeine free. The most popular right now is the Holiday Spiced Latte – we’re not strictly allowed to call it a PSL but it’s the same. …Maybe try a decaf?”

Wednesday-lad’s mouth opened, but so did his eyes – getting downright comically big for a moment – and he jumped dramatically again, this time managing to flail about wildly enough he bashed into the condiment station and nearly knocked over the oat milk and 3%. But he was apparently gifted with reflexes to go with his klutziness, and moved quick enough to steady each carafe with a hand before they toppled down right on top of little Gidget.

Who seemed to have her leash tangled mysteriously around his ankle. Though from the jumpy, jittery looks of things so far, Newt couldn’t be at all sure she was the one to blame.

“Decaf.” Wednesday nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s… maybe not such a bad idea.” He was already ducking down to gently detangle himself, flashing that smile and politely and profusely reassuring a tutting Mrs. Brennan that he was fine, and one hundred percent at fault.

Newt almost hated to interrupt.

“Can I get your name?” he managed to cut in, Sharpie poised and at the ready. “For the cup?” (And no other reasons.)

He couldn’t very well just write _Wednesday, or Cutie-face DorkVibes_ or whatever _,_ after all. Even if it were turning out to apparently be completely and utterly true.

“Thomas,” Cutie-Vibes said, smiling up at him again from his crouched dog-cuddling position on the shop floor. Yup, still dazzling. (Fine, if you liked that sort of thing.) “So not rare. But occasionally endangered,” he added, turning back to continue fussing Gidget under her soft white candy-floss chin.

By the time Newt had Thomas’ Not-a-PSL done and Mrs. Brennan’s tea and scone in hand, she had let them gambol off to the corner to play together, and the two were seemingly already the best of friends.

So Mrs. B. called for Gidget, and Newt called for “Tommy”— and then promptly had to slip into autopilot mode in order to continue basic functioning well enough that he could deliver the requisite obligatory platitudes about ‘enjoying’ his maiden venture into the brave new world of overpriced decaf and ‘having a good one’ as he waved them out of the shop, in spite of the sound of the sudden lecture on the rules of customer service conduct and the Dos and Don’ts of inappropriately pet-naming unconsenting adults filling up his head in what was very distinctly Alby’s voice.

Leaving a very wide margin of probability that he had totally gone and said it again.

It wasn’t as if he had meant to, it was just so weirdly automatic. It was hardly Newt’s fault, anyway. If people were going to go around not knowing how to order a coffee like a grownup and rolling about on the floor to play with every canine they ran across like an adorable overgrown kid, or perhaps more accurately, a puppy themselves, then they deserved what they got. Which was diminutive nicknames from complete strangers who hadn’t asked their permission. Apparently.

Newt couldn’t be sure how long Brenda had been back from the storeroom’s ineffable delights and standing behind him, when he turned around – possibly cursing – but her raised eyebrow and skeptical look said it had been long enough.

Newt gave her his most (so not very) innocent look and promptly and immediately had an entire internal meltdown as he realized he couldn’t even remember which name he had written on the cup.

At least he could be sure it wasn’t Dorky McHottiepants or something similarly bordering on harassment and possibly potentially even slightly illegal.

He hoped.

Brenda’s eyebrow stayed raised but her mouth stayed (blessedly) shut as she stepped gamely up to serve Beardy Iain next. Considerately letting Newt get back to his cupboard full of cup-sleeves and boxes of agave-based sweetener packets, where he could conveniently spend the rest of the morning avoiding her gaze and ignoring the strange new burn in his cheeks and at the back of his neck and starting his count (yes, several times, if you must know) all over again from nought.

* * *

  
Whatever might have been written on the cup, Tommy Wednesday couldn’t have been too offended about it because Tuesday dawned, grey and miserable, and by lunch time there was that smile, like Newt’s own private dose of indoor sunshine; the flecks of snow in his caffè Americano hair already starting to melt into droplets like crystals of a little half-frozen tiara.

“Back for more?” Damn, that blush. But (yeeesh, stay on target, mate.) Newt was a professional, he could do this. “Was the H-S-L a winner then?”

“Uh—oh right. Actually I—”

“No problem!” Newt interjected. Absolutely helpfully, and not at all too quickly. It was only common courtesy, after all, to save Tom— _Thomas_ from having to find polite phrasing for the fact that he clearly fell on the ‘PSLs are for shit’ side of the Great Pumpkin Spice Debate. “If you’ve got some time I can make you a few samples to—”

“Decaf guy, right?” But Brenda had chosen that moment to return from her apparent new love affair with inventory month and the storeroom. “No problem. You were just about to go on break, right?” she piped up, oh-so-helpfully, clearly having spied Newt’s already-poured chai and cold breakfast croissant waiting by the sink. “Did you want it in a mug or to go?”

“Uh…” Newt watched as Thomas’ blush deepened by about four-and-a-half shades, and his pretty eyes scanned the sitting area – which was admittedly small but currently only occupied by one long-brown-haired, bespectacled girl who was staring, utterly absorbed, into the laptop she was connected to by the long white string of her earbuds. “To go, I guess,” he said anyway, obviously taken off guard with Brenda’s quick-shift ability to apparently address both of them at once, and graciously not pointing out that she hadn’t actually asked him what his order was yet.

Which was no concern for Brenda, of course, who was multitasking punching in his order with firing up Carlotta, and already chatting to him like the pair were old friends, at typical Brenda-speed. “You should try the cinnamon soy ristretto, it’s my absolute jam. Hey, you were in one of my classes last year, right? _Mapping Ecosystems_ , with Simmons…”

By the time Newt had his apron off, hands scrubbed and jacket on, Thomas had his cinnamon-scented cup in hand and they were headed ‘conveniently’ out the door at the same time. (Damned bell, jangle-jingling it’s obnoxious, happy little spray of poison ivy-or-whatever viciously.)

“Which way you headed?” Newt asked, as their feet hit the pavement, and the pavement hit back with its blast of chill January air. Just to avoid that awkward ‘shall we dance’ moment when two people tried to make a one-way sidewalk accommodate two-way traffic.

“Ah.” But apparently awkwardness was just part of the Thomas Experience, because he raised a hand to do his schoolboy neck-rubbing bit again and even chewed a little at his bottom lip, just to add that little extra shot of _Tommy_. (See? None of it had been Newt’s fault at all.) “Just what I was about to ask you.”

“Oh, I uhm. Usually just take my lunch in the park. Only place that’s not the Green Bean to sit down ’round here, really.”

“Sure.” Thomas held out a gallant hand in a classic ‘after you’, and they both picked their way down the walk between the patches of slick ice and hard-crusted January snow that adorned the pavement.

By the time they had crossed at the lights and made their way to the path that bordered the park, Thomas excused himself briefly with a “just gimme one second!” Apparently having decided they were going to be spending at least a portion of Newt’s break in one another’s shared company without so much as a by-your-leave.

Newt waited for him anyway.

Or, to put it more precisely, he sauntered slowly along in Thomas’ wake, trying not to grin too hard while he watched him jog, unsurprisingly at this point, up to the rose-tat faced man on the bench and hand over a dollar in exchange for a paper.

“Thanks Lawrence,” Thomas was saying warmly, and smiling brightly as ever, when Newt caught him up. And then “hey Bark! Hey, buddy!” as he fawned and fussed over the big black Labrador seated obediently next to the bench in a way that made Newt suspect Thomas’ dollar of truly buying a cuddle from Bark, and not the day’s headlines at all.

Cuddles completed, Thomas seemed wordlessly content to let Newt lead the way up the path and into the park to his usual spot. They managed to snag a free bench by the duck pond – which, this time of year, was really only frequented by pigeons.

Newt tore into his breakfast sandwich and threw them their share of the crumbs never the less.

Which the pigeons patently ignored.

Much to Thomas’ apparent amusement.

Newt grinned right along with him. “Can’t blame them, frankly. It’s gluten free,” he added dubiously, taking a morose bite.

“Oh, are you—”

“Nope!” Newt tucked his pasty-dry mouthful into his cheek to reply and shook his head just for extra emphasis. “Love gluten. Big gluten fan, here. They’re just the only ones left over by lunch time. And that—” Newt gestured with the pathetic remainder of his sandwich toward a pigeon who had opted to give one of the crumbs a try – and promptly spat it right back down. “Explains why.” It was feedback he was truly going to relish relaying to Alby. “The black bean brownie’s pretty tasty though – vegan and gluten free – if you’re in the market. How’s the ristretto?”

“Uh. Strong?”

“Be honest, Tommy,” _Thomas_. (Fuck.) “It can’t be worse customer feedback than the bloody pigeons’.”

“Uhmmm. Depends. …Is it supposed to taste like cough syrup?”

Newt’s crack of laughter was loud enough the pigeons fluttered up off the non-GMO, anti-glutenous ground around their feet for a moment, their feathers literally ruffled.

“Wanna swap?” he offered, handing over his cup. “Mine’s a chai latte. It’s about half-caf, rather than caffeine free, but a lot of people do make the switch to chai from coffee.”

“Really? I mean, sure, if you—”

“Go on.” Newt nudged the air between them encouragingly with his cup. “I’ve been through the entire menu so many times, my choice in lunch beverages is mainly about keeping my hands warm more than anything else at this point.”

Thomas accepted, a little shyly maybe, but he raised Newt’s cup for an immediate healthy-looking gulp without further hesitation.

And then instantly doubled forward, choking dramatically on it as if it had been a swig of over-proof moonshine.

“Alright Tommy?” There was absolutely nothing adorable _or_ cute as fuck about it. Nope. “ _Thomas_ , sorry.”

“No, that’s okay, I like it. The—you.” Newt ignored the thing his heartbeat did in response to that and waited for the other shoe to drop, whilst Thomas: coughed. Three – no – four times. “Calling me Tommy. Not the drink.” There it was. “…Sorry.” As if a person’s taste in hot beverages were anything at all to apologize for. “Ugh,” Thomas muttered, wiping at his eyes as he recovered and making Newt wonder if maybe he should be the one apologizing. “Hey, why didn’t the cinnamon ristretto ever talk to the herbal drinks?” Uh oh. “…Because it said they just _weren’t his cup of tea_.”

Hell no.

“ _Dad jokes_?” Newt let his eyebrow climb up toward his hairline. “It would only be fair to warn you off going in against a barista, when it comes to coffee puns.”

“Hit Me.” Tommy’s grin lit up with challenge was a sight to behold, that was one thing sure. “…With Your Best Shot – coffee’s favourite karaoke song.”

“Wow,” Newt nodded, duly impressed. “Terrible. A worthy adversary then - What do coffee and Eric Clapton have in common?” Newt riposted, in keeping with the musical theme.

“Shit,” Thomas’ defeated curse was almost music itself and that smile lit up even brighter, if such an impossibility were to be believed. “I— feel like I should know this. Something to do with Cream?”

“Both are no good without it,” Newt conceded. “Bollocks, in my opinion. Nothing against the band, but give me whole milk any day. Makes for the best foam. And that man is an absolute God with a Stratocaster.” Newt raised Thomas’ cinnamon latte for a sip while he thought of the next one, and tried not to make any greater issue or fanfare than Thomas had over putting his mouth where Thomas’ had been only minutes before. “Why was the coffee-shop worker fired?” Not his best work by far, but Thomas watched him take his next sip as if he was awaiting the inevitable disappointment of the punchline with bated breath. “He kept showing up in a Tea-shirt.”

Newt may or may not have been getting a little too used to the sound of his laugh.

“Okay, yeah that’s pretty bad.”

“Warned you! It’s an occupational hazard, you see.” He stuck his elbows out like the brawny bald body builder from Thursday afternoons and put on his best deep, macho growl. “Hey there brew-tiful! This job must have a lot of _perks_! If you ever want to make beef jerky – just give it a cup of this stuff!”

Thomas did him the courtesy of another short chuckle but then he was ducking his head.

“Sorry.” And apologizing for something needlessly again, it would seem. He gave a small sigh. “…You get hit on at work a lot then, huh?”

Newt let his eyebrow take a little excursion northward again. “If you think puns are the height of seduction, I must really be giving you the full treatment then, eh?”

Newt put Thomas’ cup up to his mouth again, this time mostly just to stop anything more from coming out of it.

He supposed he shouldn’t tease. As enjoyable a diversion as this break with Thomas was turning out to be, Newt knew he wasn’t _hitting on_ him. If anyone was to blame, he was. Tommy was a customer – and if he was going to consent to being inappropriate with any of the Green Bean’s employees it was most likely going to be Brenda. But this was harmless, Newt told himself.

And besides, it was damn near impossible to resist any opportunity to watch that blush appear. Which, as Newt could see when he looked over at Thomas watching him gnaw pensively at the edge of his cup, it had done. In spades.

Newt took pity and changed the subject.

“Not going to read your paper?” he asked, with a nod down at where it had been abandoned next to Thomas on the bench.

“Why, d’you want it?” Thomas scrabbled it up off the bench to offer it to him, with a look that made his eyes so round and earnest Newt wasn’t sure what it was about it that made him laugh.

“No, I only meant – don’t let me hold you up. I mean, isn’t that what you bought it for?”

“Nah. I have a phone, like everybody else!” Thomas squirmed about on the bench to fish it out of his pocket as if Newt had demanded proof. “But they’re 100% recycled, see? And Lawrence goes to the work of taking that job – walking his butt downtown to pick up those papers, and schlepping it all back up to the park. When he could just as easily sit his ass down in that same spot and just ask for handouts instead and… you gotta respect that, I guess. It’s what everybody wants, after all. Respect.”

Newt forgot to respond to that for what had to be a full minute, too busy staring into the deserted duck pond and contemplating the existence of the supernatural. Because it was entirely probable the being sat next to him was not at all human.

In Newt’s experience humans were generally heaps of stinky, ill-tempered, caffeine-deprived rubbish, wrapped up in a layer of smelly damp wool. But not Thomas. Thomas did things like going out of his way to support total strangers in their quest for _respect_. Every week. Thomas did things like buying things, not because he needed them, but because other people needed him to buy them. Instead of doing them the indignity of offering a ‘handout’. Thomas might possibly be literally too good to be real. Newt wouldn’t be at all surprised if he looked up from his reverie to find he had never actually been there at all.

He was though. Flipping through his phone the whole time, as if Newt weren’t busy having an entire existential crisis over 100% recycled newsprint.

“Hey, check it out.” Thomas said, wriggling excitedly to attention on the bench and apparently having found whatever he had been looking for, on his screen. “Alright, ready? Barista pop quiz.”

Which was apparently a long list of puns entirely to do with coffee. People had far too much time on their hands.

“Why did the coffee call the pol—”

“Because it was mugged,” Newt answered before Tommy could finish, head back in the game and ready for triumph. Ringing in before the buzzer.

That had been amateur level, besides.

“What do you call a cow who’s just had a—” “De-calf-inated.”

“Why did the kangaroo stop drin—” “Too jumpy.”

“What do you do when your partner drinks your coffee?”

“…You got me. What? I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either but it sounds like _grounds_ for divorce!”

Newt drowned his growl of fiery outrage in another sip of Thomas’ rejected cinnamon.

“Alright, last one, promise. Why don’t snakes drink coffee?” Thomas squirmed on the bench again, making good on his word and tucking away his phone. “It makes them viper-active!”

Proof that the perfect pun existed, and it was the kind that made you simultaneously uncertain there was sufficient cash in existence on this green earth in order to pay you enough to spend another minute in the issuing person’s company, and yet sure that if they left your side that moment, you legitimately might not survive it.

Thomas celebrated his discovery with another sip of chai, and an immediately-following look of disgust as if he wished the opening on his sip-lid was wide enough he could spit it back into the cup.

And if Newt stifled his laughter just so that he could listen to the sound of Thomas’ over his own, well, what then?  
  


“Alright so not a chai bloke, I must say that does cut our options by almost half. But I’m not giving up on you Tommy, we’ll sort you out,” Newt reassured him. “I’m very confident.”

Thomas, true to form, blushed. But also in true Tommy-fashion, seemed to be used to it enough by now to simply take it in stride.

“You are,” he noted, sincerely. “It’s one of the things I like the most about you.” Newt was in danger of turning a tad pink, himself. But Thomas wasn’t finished talking, apparently. “…Look, Newt, I have a confession to make—”

The timer alarm on Newt’s phone chose that moment to bling and buzz in his pocket.

  
“Shit.” (Almost as hellishly irritating as the bloody shop-bell.) “That’s my break.” Newt scrambled in his pocket to silence the shrill audacity of the interruption. “I’ve got to get back, Brenda will have my arse if I end up making her change the cold brew keg all by herself again. Justifiable homicide really,” he amended, fairly. “Sorry. Um. Walk me back and finish your confession on the way?”

Thomas did walk him back to the café, but he didn’t finish whatever revelation he had been about to bestow. Instead, they made most of the quick jaunt in silence, with their hands stuffed into their pockets and the collars of their coats shrugged up to their ears. As if sitting on their little bench, before the hearth of Tommy’s warm grins and heated little blushes, had made a bubble of distraction that allowed them to forget it was actually the dead of winter, and getting their arses up and moving was the icy-cold pinprick pop that let the chilly reality of January come blowing back in.

“Well,” Newt turned to Thomas when they ran out of wintry-cold sidewalk, and finally reached the door. “If you stop in tomorrow I can make you those samples I mentioned and you can find something you like, I’m sure of it.”

Thomas shook his head, shoulders still shrugged stiffly up against the bite of the wind. “I can’t tomorrow. Thursday, maybe?”

“Oh right,” Newt blurted, “Wednesday,” before he had really thought the wisdom of revealing he had Thomas’ schedule more or less memorized through. But he was committed now, so he might as well keep talking and hope for the best. “The, um,” Newt made a vague gesture in the direction of Thomas’ shoulder and down. “Gym bag. Brenda mentioned you play lacrosse?”

“She did? Wow, good memory.” The reddened tips of Thomas’ ears were either due to his usual reason, or the cold. But the way he brought his fingers up out of his pocket to comb through the hair at the back of his nape rather gave him away. “Uh. No, I’m afraid it’s even nerdier than lacrosse. Volunteer stuff. I’m… part of the 501st.”

“Dare I ask?” It figured. Maybe Thomas really was too good to be true, and it was some sort of weird cult.

But all Newt got out of him was that smile.

“You’ve got a phone too. Look it up.”

“Uh huh.” Newt turned for the door, but paused to turn back with his hand on the knob. “Hey Tommy? How did the hipster burn his tongue?”

“Oh God. Go ahead. My body is ready. Do your worst.”

“He drank his coffee before it was cool.”

And Thomas gifted him one last time with the sound of his laugh – just nearly loud enough to cover the foul tinkling of that goddamned bell.

And that night, lying on top of his bedsheets and smiling unconscionably fondly into his phone, maybe Newt did look it up. Maybe the 501st was ‘a unique costuming organization dedicated to creating the most authentic costumes and props, inspired by the magic of the Star Wars universe, and proudly put its resources to good use through fundraising, charity work, and volunteerism’. Mostly for visiting chronically and terminally ill patients in hospital. Mostly kids.

Kids like the ones at the Children’s Hospital down on Queen street, just a few blocks south of the park right across from the Green Bean.

And if he looked up a few more coffee puns next, and got his hopes up far too ridiculously high for Thursday, that was his business.

(And if Newt found the coffee pun page from that afternoon and realized Thomas had come up with ‘viperactive’ up all on his clever, dork-tastic, ridiculous own, and this whole thing suddenly started to feel just a little less ‘harmless’ than Newt had insisted to himself it was in front of a half-frozen duck-turned-pigeon pond only hours ago well, who was to say.)  
  


* * *

Wednesdays were now, officially, the worst.

Wednesdays used to mean double-checking his hair on the way out the door and wondering whether it might be a cute beanie or a cute square glasses day, or the rare and weirdly endearing combination of both.

But now Wednesdays were just the days of knowing what he was missing out on when Thomas jogged hurriedly past with nothing more than that grin and two fingers coming up to his brow in a quick friendly salute from across the road. And they were the days of the guarantee that Thomas was too busy out being far too good a person for the likes of Newt to have time to set foot in the shop, and the knowledge that Newt would not be granted the chance all day to make Tommy blush or to hear the tune of his laugh.

The days of each hour maybe – maybe – dragging by so drearily, hopelessly slowly Newt almost – _almost_ – began to see Brenda’s point about quiet, inventory-friendly January.

(But definitely not the days of Newt being jealous of Bark the big black Labrador in any way shape or form.)

* * *

“What’s fat, slimy, and drinks a lot of coffee??”

The chiming of the ruddy, cursed bell had never been more insipidly hellacious than it was on Thursday. Not with the way Newt looked up, triggered, spine coiling like some sort of jungle animal ready to spring on its prey every single time it sounded, all morning long.

So if it seemed like Newt pounced, the minute a certain customer of interest walked in, with aggressive (and terrible) internet humour instead of “hello”. Well.

“If you say _Java the Hutt_ right now— Wait.” Newt watched Thomas turn about one third as red as Newt knew he was capable of, as he assimilated the significance of the Star Wars pun-as-greeting. “You looked me up!”

He had snowflakes in his hair again.

“Guilty.”

“And you haven’t thrown me out of here yet, so…”

“Thomas.” (Apparently he didn’t get to be ‘Tommy’, when Newt was scolding him.) “Bringing joy to sick kids is so ridiculously, sickeningly good of you, I’m sorry, even I can’t think of a joke to make about it. As your barista, helping you find your drink and stick to your resolutions is literally less than the least I can do. Just give me a minute and I’ll make you a couple of those samples I promised you, yeah?”

“Oh man.” Whatever Newt had been expecting from Tommy, it wasn’t for his face to fall and his shoulders to slump dejectedly. “Newt, please don’t.”

“There’s no charge, of course. That’s why they’re samples…”

  
“No. I – God, I’ve already wasted enough of your time.” _Wasted_? Rude. Newt rather felt they had been _spending_ time together. He sincerely hoped Thomas didn’t feel that it had been anything like a waste. “Listen. I need to— I – I’m a hot chocolate guy.”

Thomas grimaced sheepishly as he let the apparent weight of that admission sink in.

“What? Oh! Why didn’t you say so, we have several—”

“No, I mean. That’s not my order, it’s my confession.” Thomas wasn’t blushing. In fact he looked sort of pale, and his shoulders were uncharacteristically tense. Newt was starting to get the unsettling feeling he was missing something. “From yesterday? I’m not addicted to caffeine, if anything sugar is my real problem.”

The tense line of Thomas’ posture gave a jerky little jump, that maybe could have looked a little sugared up and hyperactive given the new context, sure, as the bell over his head clanged intrusively. But then, Newt couldn’t blame him for that one.

Though it was only announcing the arrival of none other than his beloved Mrs. B. and Gidget. Newt gave her his best ‘be with you in a moment’ wave-and-smile.

“Did you want to try a sugar-free—”

“Hell no. I’m not giving up sugar. _You can pry sugar from my cold, dead hand_!” Newt could admit he was relieved to see the familiar, reassuring blush that followed what was apparently Tommy’s best Charlton Heston, but when Gidget managed to insinuate herself with his ankles and Thomas still looked too preoccupied to immediately duck down under the counter to greet her, it was all the confirmation Newt needed that he was missing something unsettling indeed. “I mean…what I mean is… my New Year’s resolution wasn’t to give up caffeine either.” Thomas wrung his fingers together like it had been his fault Newt had been the one to jump to that (however understandable) conclusion. “It—it was to finally pluck up the courage to come in here and get the cute barista’s number.”

Newt’s heart jumped right up inside his chest, and then plummeted. Like it had just performed a perfectly-executed double back flip, right off of a cliff.

“Right.” It wasn’t as if it was news. Newt saw the way Tommy’s eyes darted about, looking for Brenda when she wasn’t in sight, the way he blushed when either one of them mentioned she remembered him from her classes last year.

Newt sighed (but only just the tiniest disappointed bit), priding himself on the way his standard barista-issue smile didn’t dip, even for a second, as he stepped back from the counter and turned to where Brenda was busy cleaning out the drip trays, to call her over. But Thomas wasn’t done with his confessions it seemed.

“No!” he interrupted. “No, not—Brenda’s cute. She is, I mean she—” 

“I’m STANDING RIGHT HERE, Disastervibes!” Brenda retorted loudly over her shoulder, without so much as troubling to interrupt her task.

Oh.

Newt looked back at Thomas, with his big doe eyes and perfect little upturned nose on his fairy-tale freckled face, blushing his schoolboy blush under his crowning of glinting white snowflakes – deeper and redder than Newt had ever seen it yet.

_Oh_.

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Up came that hand, scratching adorably-awkwardly at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah,” Newt could feel himself grinning so wide he probably looked like the Big Bad Wolf right out of that fairy-tale. “I might.”

Thomas did duck down under the counter then, but (shockingly) not in order to cosy up to Gidget.

Newt had to hop up and sprawl himself over the counter to see it, but Thomas had definitely gotten down on a single bended knee.

  
Jesus. So this was what that blushing thing felt like.

“Newt,” Thomas began, relentlessly, “I think you’re fab-brew-lous.” (Oh, dear Lord.) “You’re funny, and gorgeous and really good looking and cute and— _super_ patient. Which is…probably pretty key when it comes to hanging out with me. You call me Tommy, and you know more about Eric Clapton than is probably normal. And you don’t think I’m weird, or ask _what’s Sumatra with_ _me_ for buying the paper I don’t read like it’s 1939, or dressing up like Boba Fett once a week. So. If you might do me the honour of giving me your number and… I dunno maybe having a hot chocolate with me at your break, I think there’s a chance we might make a pretty good… cup-ple.”

“Christ.” Newt would have commended-slash-condemned him for that one, but he wasn’t done mentally coping with _what’s Sumatra_.

“So?” Tommy’s teeth dented softly into his lower lip. “Whaddya say?”

Well there was only one thing a man could possibly say to all that.

Newt reached down from where he was still draped over the counter and grabbed for Thomas’ coat collar – simultaneously dragging him up to his feet and effectively stopping Tommy from scratching his fingers nervously in under it.

He grinned. “Where have you _bean_ all my life?”

Newt tugged a now equally-happily beaming Thomas a step closer, and then another, so his chest bumped the counter and all Newt could see was a very pleasing landscape of amber and freckles. But he could hear Brenda step up beside him to serve Mrs. Brennan, muttering something about the two of them getting on with it so she could quit hiding out in the stupid storeroom already, and all this drool on the counter being unsanitary.

And then something else about them ending up with a health-inspection Newt didn’t fully hear, too busy finally giving in to days’ worth of temptation and reaching gently up to brush the clinging snowflakes out of Thomas’ hair. Exactly as soft and rewarding an experience as it looked.

(And it made those long doe-lashes do this soft, pleased sort of fluttering thing that caused sudden butterflies around the general area of Newt’s stomach to answer their call in kind. He might never think of anything about Tommy as ‘harmless’ ever again.)

“Boba Fett?” So that was what was in the mystery gym bag. Newt stopped his uninvited but apparently well-received fondling in the baby-soft strands of Thomas' hair and took hold of his collar again, just in case he got the idea that the momentary freedom meant Newt was letting him move away any time soon. “Shame. Thought maybe I’d landed me one of those sassy storm trooper numbers. The gays do love a man in uniform.”

“Mmm.” Thomas hummed happily, seeming to get the message well enough to lean in even closer, so their foreheads touched for a moment. “Try me on Saturday, full nerd armour is more of a weekend thing.”

“Oh would you _kiss_ him already, the poor young man has been standing under the mistletoe all week!” The surprise of Mrs. Brennan’s exasperated voice was enough to actually make Newt stop drowning in the caramel corretto colour of Tommy’s eyes to look up for a moment.

“Mistletoe??”

“Duh,” Brenda supplied. “What else did you think that green leafy crap was, with the dumb bell on it, that Alby insisted on putting up over the holidays?”

Newt’s mouth fell open but nothing seemed to want to come out. Not before his eyes simply strayed helplessly right back to Thomas’ own.

“Duh,” Thomas agreed. Nodding slightly apologetically but still no bloody help at all.

Newt narrowed his eyes vengefully.

“You know, there’s a strong chance I might taste like chai.” (Whoever said revenge was sweet? In this case it was a delightful exotic blend of cinnamon, cardamom, clove and star anise.)

Tommy just hit him with a close-up flash of that thousand-watt grin.

“Guess I’ll just have to risk-stretto it.”

So alright, the perfect pun existed. It did. And one day Newt would praise Thomas for his ability to inspire a desire for immediate escape while simultaneously making Newt absolutely one-hundred percent certain that if he were to leave his side, he legitimately might not survive it. But for now, Newt only wanted to tell him one thing:

“Shut up.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed, leaning so close the tip of a perfect upturned nose brushed Newt's own, surprisingly effectively filling up all of his senses with a buzzing January blizzard of sizzling, snow-white static.

“Oh my God. Come for the coffee, stay for the dorks,” Brenda complained loudly as the over-door bell jangled happily and somebody somewhere commented smugly and egregiously about public espressos of affection.

Newt couldn’t care less. Whoever it was, Beardy Hipster Iain or Gary or Stu or maybe even the Brawny Bald Body in his little Willy Wonka hat and tie, he didn’t mind letting them wait in the slightest.

And as he pulled Tommy that last, sensation-sizzling final inch closer, the merry little jingle of that over-door bell and its blessed little spray of mistletoe (duh.) didn’t sound so bad to Newt at all.

*


End file.
